


Desperate Times: How to Survive Your Friendship with an Overdramatic Pretty Boy, a seminar by E. Weiss and F. Nelson

by the_wordbutler



Category: Alias (TV), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, and is totally sara's fault, but i am pleased with it, so i will subject you to it, this story makes no sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weiss's overdramatic pretty boy is trying to plug a Sydney-shaped hole in his heart.</p>
<p>Foggy's overdramatic pretty boy is . . . spending his night in a dumpster?</p>
<p>Look, the point is:  kindred spirits find one another in a bar in Brooklyn, thanks mostly to a little professional overhearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Times: How to Survive Your Friendship with an Overdramatic Pretty Boy, a seminar by E. Weiss and F. Nelson

**Author's Note:**

> My fabulous brain twin, saranoh, turned me on to Alias. And as we yelled about Vaughn being _the worst_ , I could not help but think of other dramatic boys with supportive, sweet best friends. And lo, this fic wrote itself.
> 
> Thanks as always to said brain twin for the beta-reading and encouragement.

“On what planet is a pet store romantic, that’s—” Weiss says, but as usual, Vaughn cuts him off with a list of his very good reasons why he’s right and his super-intelligent, incredibly attractive best friend is wrong. At least, that’s what Weiss tells himself, because it comforts him through Vaughn’s ridiculous rationalizations. “No, I know you think you know what she wants, but— Yeah, that’s right, I used the word ‘think.’ Meaning that you’re not certain, because—” 

Vaughn starts up again, a little pissier this time, and Weiss groans aloud as he flags down the bartender for another drink. He’s not even sure where they are—the operation started on one side of Brooklyn and ended on the other—and he’s pretty sure he might contract hepatitis if he sits on this bar stool too long. Still, the whiskey’s cheap, and Weiss is a broke government employee.

“No, you know what?” he says as Vaughn’s wrapping up his latest series of dramatic pauses. “You do what you want. Take her to a pet store. But when you come home with three canaries and one of those fancy frilled gerbils, I’m going to tell you I told you so.”

He’s not proud of the way he hangs up or of the way he bangs his head on the bar, but desperate times. Really, that will someday be the name of his autobiography: _Desperate Times: How I Kept from Murdering Michael Vaughn through His Eighteen Relationships with Sydney Bristow and Three Times as Many Rebounds_. 

Actually, that title’s probably too long for a decent autobiography.

“If you’re going to cry about your spat with your boyfriend, don’t do it on my bar,” the bartender says as she drops off his whiskey, and he waves her off.

His forehead’s still resting on the cool, mostly varnished wood when the one other man at the bar suddenly shouts, “Dammit, Matt!” Weiss’d noticed him when he’d walked in, but now, he tilts his head in that direction and notices him for a second time. He’s around the same age as Weiss, maybe a little softer around the edges, but he wears a suit probably from the same discount menswear chain and his hair—

Weiss always wanted shaggy hair. Another dream stolen by agency regulations.

“I am lowering my voice,” the other guy growls into his cell phone, his face crumpling, “but Matt— No, we did not talk about this. You talked about this. I reminded you that we have court in the morning, and I’d rather not have my co-counsel spend his night in another dumpster.” Weiss raises his eyebrows at that, but the guy—oblivious to his audience—just huffs out a breath. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of laughing at your dumpster joke, so I’m hanging up on you now. And fair warning: if you die, I’m giving Karen your office.”

He hangs up his phone with about as much anger as Weiss hung up his a full thirty seconds ago and reaches for his beer. Except he tilts his head just far enough for his eyes to wander, and he catches Weiss watching him.

For a split second, they stare at each other.

“Please don’t screw in my bathroom,” the bartender says, and Weiss’s face flushes red as he jerks his eyes away.

“Sorry,” he says, a little quicker than usual, and the other guy mutters the same. He loses a second nursing his whiskey, but— Well, look, you don’t spend the better part of your adult life in the CIA and not learn when people are watching you across a bar. Especially not when they’re attractive, and especially not when they’re pursing their lips contemplatively.

Weiss frowns at his whiskey. He usually needs three or four before he starts waxing poetic about attractive men. At least, attractive men other than Vaughn.

“Jerk friend, jerk girlfriend, or jerk something-in-between?” the other guy asks. Weiss glances over, and he shrugs. “I heard you arguing on the phone before Matt called,” he explains. “In my experience, people only argue like that with friends, girlfriends, or . . . I don’t know, especially close second cousins?”

His mouth tilts into a little grin, and Weiss huffs a laugh. “The first category,” he explains, and the stranger nods sagely. “My buddy, Michael, he’s pretty horrible with women. Well, actually, with one woman in particular. The others are all filling Sydney-shaped holes and usually end up slapping him by the end of date five.”

The other guy sighs. “I wish Matt’d just stick to women.”

Weiss raises his eyebrows. “Because he’s dumpstersexual?” His new friend blinks once before he laughs, and Weiss grins at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear. Force of habit.”

“You habitually listen in on strangers’ phone calls?”

Weiss shrugs. “Habitually and professionally, actually.”

“Please don’t tell me I’m being chatted up by the NSA,” the man groans, and this time, Weiss laughs aloud. “Because ignoring how awkward it’d make tomorrow morning’s walk of shame—”

“We’re already on tomorrow morning?”

“—I’ll have to start filing lawsuits about it and totally ruin my firm’s reputation for being penniless do-gooders.” 

Weiss snorts. “Funny thing is, I have the same natural aversion to lawyers.”

The other guy pauses for a split second before grinning—an actual grin, the kind of grin that a more poetic man (maybe one named Michael Vaughn) might write a ten-part ode to—and before that particular thought leaves Weiss’s head, his new friend’s sliding onto the nearest stool. “Foggy,” he introduces, holding out a hand. “Proud owner of one jerk best friend.”

Weiss frowns slightly. “Am I supposed to ignore the fact that your parents named you Foggy?”

“Well, since my parents named me Franklin, probably.”

That infectious grin ties knots in Weiss’s stomach, and he swallows hard around it to grasp the outstretched hand. “Weiss,” he greets, and raises a hand when Foggy raises an eyebrow. “My given name’s Eric. And before you ask: I also have a jerk best friend, and I’m definitely not the NSA.”

“To a lawsuit-free walk of shame,” Foggy replies, and clinks his beer bottle against Weiss’s glass. Weiss laughs and shakes his head—in a way, Foggy’s inherent glee reminds him a little of that Marshall, just with better social skills and nice hands. He’s mulling around that thought (he’s not into R&D guys now, is he?) when Foggy leans close enough that their arms brush. “Tell me about Michael.”

Weiss almost chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Thanks to your eavesdropping——”

“Overhearing.”

“—you know all about Matt’s dumpster-diving plans.” Foggy shrugs. “Turnabout is fair play.”

Weiss rolls his lips together. “Does that mean I get to ask for more details about Matt winding up in a dumpster?”

“Depending on how the night progresses, maybe.” There’s a note of promise in Foggy’s voice, and Weiss’s stomach knots again. “In the alternative, we try to break into his apartment at 3 a.m. because of our concern for his well-being.”

Weiss snorts. “Make you a deal: you help me rescue my buddy from his pet shop date of death when it inevitably goes wrong, and I will personally pick the lock on your friend’s front door.”

Foggy releases a low whistle. “A pet shop,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

“As part of a date?” When Weiss nods, he cringes. “You know, I regularly question my romantic prowess, but nothing compares to taking a girl to a pet store.”

“That’s what I told him!” Weiss announces, throwing up his hands. “I swear, he used to be better at women. But ever since he and his ‘my watch stopped the day I met you’ girlfriend split up again—”

Foggy grits his teeth. “Ouch.”

“—it’s pet shops and aquariums and roller skating rinks, every time.” He shakes his head. “And the thing that gets me is that he’s not a bad guy, you know? A little bit of an overdramatic pretty boy, but when it comes to friends—”

“Not to interrupt,” Foggy says, raising his beer bottle, “but I have the market cornered on overdramatic pretty boys.”

Weiss snorts and rolls his eyes. “Vaughn—Michael, whatever you want to call him—will make your dumpster friend look reasonable.”

“Yeah?” Foggy asks, and the hint of challenge in his voice travels lower than Weiss’s stomach.

Weiss swallows before he nods. “Bring it on, Franklin.”

For the record—because Weiss believes documenting these sorts of things for posterity are important (especially given his plans to write an autobiography)—they absolutely do not screw in the bar bathroom.

And if Foggy’s friend Matt staggers home at 2 a.m. and finds them on his couch, well, Matt’s slightly bloody and smells vaguely of rotten eggs, so Weiss is pretty sure they’re all even.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: I am still on season two of Alias, so no spoilers.


End file.
